


The One About Corporate Training Procedures

by with_a_kiss



Series: Fun With Jake and Jane [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crying, Dehumanization, Do Not Try This At Work, F/M, HR will not appreciate getting the call, Mild Voyeurism, Mind Control, Piercing, Victim Blaming, double mind control, double non-con, non-con, violation of bodily integrity: other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/with_a_kiss/pseuds/with_a_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an acquisition, one of the greatest challenges is integrating employees into the company culture. There is commonly a difficult transition period, as everyone adjusts into their new roles and futures within the organizational structure.</p>
<p>Corporate leaders must be prepared to serve as guide and mentor. </p>
<p>And example.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One About Corporate Training Procedures

**Author's Note:**

> This is a thematic sequel only.
> 
> Written for the kink meme.

The Page of Hope is living down to his title.

Jane places him in a cell while she takes care of a few higher priority tasks, and every time she checks the cell security cameras, he hasn't moved. 

He doesn't attempt to open the door, which is bolted and electrified, or to break the window bars, which are more than solid enough for his trifling mangrit levels, or to observe the walls closely for clues toward a secret exit, of which there are none.

That it is impossible to escape is not the point. It doesn't occur to him to try. He sits on the unfurnished cement floor and stares at the door, and he holds his arms tightly around his torso.

He's even more useless than Jane had suspected.

Luckily, she did not acquire him for his initiative spirit or problem solving acumen. Now that Jane has a well defined purpose and a greater reserve of processing memory, she's well supplied with both.

No, she's keeping Jake around for one thing: ambience.

Jane has, during a decade and a half of preparing to take her place at the head of the Crockercorp Empire, read management studies that conclude both non-monetary perks and an attractive working environment have positive effects on company morale and productivity.

Crockercorp understands that. Jane was permitted to choose her own acceptance bonus, and it's certainly improving her personal attitude. She checks on Jake between quashing a minor Dersite rebellion and attending a strategy meeting with the daughter just recruited into the family business, and she sees Jake hugging his smooth, brown leg to his chest as the closest available thing to a child's plush toy.

The fabric of his god tier outfit stretches, giving her camera a coy glimpse of the bulge in the front of his panties and the crease between upper thigh, smooth and hairless there too. 

If he were less oblivious, Jane would suspect him of posing for the camera's benefit, inviting her to run calculations on certain ideas and what ifs. Ideas such as exactly how far the depilatory effect reached, or how silky the delicate skin would be under the touch of her fingers. What ifs such as the noises he might make as her hand drifts up the inside of his thigh, warm, soft, and trembling.

Jake's biting his lower lip, and when Jane zooms the camera into his face, there are tear tracks shining from the outside corners of his eyes.

He's exhibiting an adverse emotional response to the situation, but even so, he's not motivated to do anything but sit passively until she returns and deals with him as she chooses.

Jane wants to finish her currently assigned duties quickly and efficiently, so that she can get back to enjoy the perks of her position. She deserves it. She is a hard working no-nonsense taker, and it is, after all, her Birthday.

However she also, and paradoxically, wants to do _extra_ work to stretch out this last electric moment of anticipation. Jake doesn't know what she plans to do with him, and he's terrified of solving the mystery or filling in the data. 

She hasn't acquired him for his instincts as a detective either.

* * *

Jane throws open the cell door with more mangrit than is necessary, but it makes a nice, decisive bang against the wall. Jake flinches at the noise. He doesn't move from the floor as Jane approaches him, but he leans backwards inch by inch with each footfall. His knees are bent for protection in front of him.

He looks up at her through long, wet lashes. He's still crumpled around his solar plexus, where her fist had landed hardest. It had been easy to overpower him. By the time he finally reacted, Jane's arm was already bent around his throat like a titanium ring.

Jake draws his knees closer to himself, like he's trying to present her with a smaller target, but even as he blinks away tears he looks up at her with _hope._

Hope of what? Escape? That Jane will discard her newly obtained purpose and laugh the situation off as a prank? She is an busy business woman with important responsibilities, and she does not have time for his foolishness.

Jane explains the function Jake is to serve as consort to the heiress of the Betty Crocker Corporation in a logical and factual manner, and even this overwhelms his feeble mental capacities. He's sniveling and muttering to imaginary friends. Pathetic.

He's lucky he's so hot. 

Otherwise, there wouldn't be any use for him.

But he _is_ hot. Even, perhaps especially, like this. Jane runs an appraising eye over him, weighing the muscles and quivering lips and strong smooth legs. There's a desperate uncertainty in his eyes as he looks up at her, a knowing helplessness as he waits, utterly passive, to see what she'll do to him.

That's good. That's how _everyone_ will soon look at her, so it's fitting that her official consort will lead by example.

His body is ready. His clothes, however…

Jane appreciates the hem length Sburb has chosen for him, but the murky mustard yellow and cream does not adhere to Crockercorp's branding guidelines. It's very important that, when you present a company's assets or products, you communicate an immediate sense of which corporation it belongs to, and what it is _for._

Jane calls for two of her carapacian subjectemployees to come into the cell. They are big, bulky figures, each nearing eight feet in height. Jane asks them to hold Jake up for consideration, and they Obey.

Jake cringes and pulls away. "Jane, what's happening? What are they going to do to me?" he pleads. His voice is choked with sobs, and until he decides to address her in a manner more fitting of a royal suitor Jane won't reward him by explaining.

"As I am their superior, they will carry out any assignment I give them," she says. "You will stop sniveling and do the same, unless you desire me to _give_ you something to cry about."

He doesn't stop sniveling, but this time he doesn't struggle as they lift him into the air. Jake dangles with his head bent and his toes dragging lightly over the ground. Apparently he's forgotten that he can fly now, and thus comfortably support his own weight.

Jane could have manhandled him personally. However, even though he's weaker, Jake is still taller and bulkier, and Jane would not be able to back up to get the full perspective.

A businesswoman must be pre-prepared for project meetings, so Jane has already alchemized a version of Jake's god tier outfit in Crockercorp standard red and white. She uses the captchalogued costume on Jake, and the gold-mustard version is replaced in a shimmer of spatial artifacts and deposits itself into the opened slot in her sylladex.

Jake shudders at the change, gasps, and stares at Jane with wide, shocked eyes. 

It's a vast improvement. He's silent, and he's finally stopped sobbing.

On Earth, it was considered impolite to directly affect another mindful creature with one's sylladex. The mechanism is keyed to a single individual's unique aetheric signature, and the interaction creeps along one's spine like existential static shock. 

Jane's bodyguard had to pull her into a bungee cord cocoon when she was ten and too close to a traffic cone hiding a remotely released sarin package. There hadn't been another option to save her, but Jane had hidden in her room for a week afterwards, staring at tokens of her interests and feeling numb, like the connection with her own life had been lessened by the interference. 

The bodyguard couldn't continue in the position, due to the neurological damage, and although Jane had worked at being grateful, she could not shake the sense that the result was just.

This is different. Jake is _hers_ now, an asset to make use of, and applying her sylladex is the most efficient way. Time is boonbucks, and Jane's never been one to play dress up with dollies. She preferred baking sets or mystery solving equipment, activities with a measurable result.

Jake's new outfit is the right color, but it's bland and, shorts aside, is not suitable for a royal consort. The symbol of Hope is irrelevant and off-message. The outfit's unbalanced by too much red above the thighs. 

Jane reaches a hand to his chest and Jake shakes his head, still clearing it, and pulls back from her, saying, "Don't. I'll do it -- I'll -- I'll put on whatever you want--"

Jane yanks the shirt into her sylladex like a snapping of elastic band, and Jake sags between her loyal employees. The magic fire has burned off some of his chest hair as well, Jane notes with disappointment. Although his treasure trail is more sculpted. She traces the dark fuzz down to his waistband, catching small wisps of hair between her fingernails.

She must revise an earlier "what if" calculation. Other than his shaking breaths, Jake makes zero interesting noises.

Jane steps back again to observe. It's better. The eye is drawn up from the red shock of panties to an expanse of sweat covered muscles, making a brief detour at his two mouve nipples, and drifting the last inches to the cape. 

Yet there is still something simple and unfinished about it, the way that all god tier outfits have the comfortable feel of pyjamas. Jake might be headed for the beach in swim trunks and sneakers, with a towel tied around his neck. It is not at all a fitting look for her future husband.

Jane considers the briefs. They're tight, and she can see the side curve of cock, which does succeed in making some things about his function obvious. But the effect is artless. Jane trades them for a loincloth of silkier red fabric. If she looks from just the right angle, it seems sheer, and the overall effect is tantalizing, leaving barely enough to the imagination. From the _front_. 

However, Jane circles behind him and is disappointed but the same effect. She doesn't want his _bum_ tantalizingly obscured. She raises the back flap, pointedly ignoring how he twitches away from her, and wedges the excess fabric between his ass cheeks.

It's much too thick for a final result, but the winding red works to highlight each globe. Jane makes a note to one of her carapician underlings, the Assiduous Fashionista, that Jane will want a thong-hybrid for the second round.

Next are the shoes. 

Jane's calculated that the thigh high boots would be the best choice of footwear, but after she switches them onto Jake's legs, they draw too much attention to work with the whole uniform. She can't look away from the shiny border of white, running internal simulations of Jake practicing his strut with the restricted knee movement and raised heel, his loin cloth shimmering with the swing of his hips.

This is why it's important to test one's conclusions, even with a mind as logical as her own.

His current outfit has a faint association with a roman slave fighter, so Jane's inspired to try sandals laced up his calf with red and white ribbon. The example she's loaded is too tight for his legs, and his flesh bulges into diamond shapes, but it works for the prototype. Then his cape is traded for one in the bright, silky fabric. It's short enough that it won't obscure his best assets, and it flares out from a ornate shoulder band, wrapping across with a chain. 

Jane steps back. The overall look is much better, although Jake's letting her employees dangle him limply. He's gasping deep breaths at the floor, crying and muttering, and his face is slackened into an expression which is not cheerful at all.

She'll fix that later. 

He's acceptably brand consistent. However, the broad, bare expanse of his torso does invite added embellishment. Jane only prepared clothes for this initial prototyping session, but she knows what's missing. 

"Take a coffee break," Jane tells her carapacian employees, because regular breaks are good for staff efficiency, and goes to talk to the Boss.

* * *

Jane's two carapacian employees are lounging in the hallway outside the door, sipping from Styrofoam cups. At her return, they finish and fall into place behind her, sweeping into Jake's cell.

Jake has moved to the opposite side of the cell, and now he's sniveling into his knees. He's attempted to wedge himself into the corner, but he neglected to measure the available space beforehand and is far too big to fit. It looks ridiculous.

She told Jake about his duty to be cheerful, but she wasn't expecting him to follow that instruction immediately. It will take on the job learning experience to mold him into a fully actualized romantic companion.

Unfortunately, Crockercorp's long term strategic plan is at a very delicate stage, requiring Jane's personal oversight of a great many active projects. She does not currently have the _time_ to introduce him to his new role, nor is she willing to delegate the process. However, creative problem solving is why she was hired, and Jane's already proposed a way to accelerate his functionality.

"Hoist him up," she tells her employees, and she turns her back on the most annoying of Jake's sniffles.

"No. Jane, please, I don't want," Jake says, but his voice is dull. It sounds like he's given up on convincing her, and now he's only muttering to remind _himself_.

Her employees pull him up to his feet, and Jake stands miserably, tears running down his chin. When Jane approaches, he breathes faster, but it is panic, not overwhelmed desire. Jane clenches down on her irritation. She places a white cuff, too thick to be jewelry, around each of his wrists, hovering up to reach. Jake's bare chest is warm against her hips. He pulls his head away from her breasts, but the result is him blinking up at Jane through wet lashes and bruised eyelids. His breath trembles over his plump lip, and something inside Jane goes tight, a shudder from her throat to the empty root of her cunt.

Jane has set a clear directive for this time, but she wastes the second to hover upwards, just slightly. It is easily justified. She can tighten the cuffs more easily from the higher angle, and it's only a side note that now Jake's bleak, crying face looks up from her low chest, exactly where it would be if she were standing, and he was on his knees.

Jake's expression - hollow, bleak, and beyond fear - is not many steps from awe. It's close to an expression on his face Jane had imagined before, furtive in the restlessness of night, when bubblegum teenage fantasies of chaste kissing and soft feathered beds weren't enough to drag her to release.

She'd kept such thoughts silent in her dark, private moments. It was nothing she'd guessed could be hers to have, no matter how much else was promised to her. The shock of it, of the flashback overlaid on the reality, turns her weak and unbalanced by _gratitude_ , by the guilt locked into the collage of memories, and by an ache of wrongness. What she thought couldn't be hers to have but--

Jane's true priorities have become unfocused. Her confused, distracting emotions are washed away by clean, focusing logic.

\--but now that she has accepted her position, there is nothing not hers to take. She considers the additions to Jake's wrists. Not bad. The cuffs, though only decorative, strip any remaining aura of unattached freedom. Red may suit him better, but that can be worked out during the next session.

His expanse of naked chest still needs attention. The cape clasped over one shoulder is unbalanced and after a moment's reflection, Jane decides to work with the asymmetry. She flips through her newly loaded jewelry until she finds a flat circle of interweaving forks. She centers it over his nipple, takes a step back to judge the gestalt, and is satisfied.

Jake doesn't immediately react to the new pressure on his skin, but when Jane pinches the center nipple he sucks air through his teeth in an irritating whistle and jerks away. "Hold him steady!" Jane commands her employees. They share a brief glance over Jake's head, and then each holds one hand to Jake's chest so he stops shaking, caught in their vise. Now that Jane's workspace is stable, she punches the center spoke of the nipple shield through.

Jake howls. His torso is fixed, but his legs kick like he's sprinting in midair. Jane allows him a generous minute to shut up, but he runs over time. So she drifts upwards once more and slaps him loudly in the face.

Jake gapes at her through a mess of snot and tears. The shock of the impact has successfully displaced the string in his chest, but now Jane's hand is gross and mucousy. She could make him sorry for that. She _should_. In business, if people believe they can disrespect you without consequence, it will make you less effective and harm the brand you speak for. If they try, you must set an example.

She will answer Jake's antics, but it will happen later. He's already delayed the process with his non-cooperation long enough. "You will fucking hold still," Jane says, and then pairs the nipple guard with a much simpler visual at his other nipple: a bar with a central strut holding a large ruby red gem.

Red trickles down his chest like the stone is leaking color, but it stops after a few moments. Having a god as a concubine means never having to take healing time into consideration.

She finishes by adding matching gems to each of his ears, her employees clamping Jake's head in place instead of his chest. The end result will serve for a first prototype design.

Jane indicates with a hand that the employees are to lower him, and they do, inch by inch, until Jake is on his knees. She clenches the hand to a fist, and they stop.

Jane takes a last accessory from her sylladex. It's a length of fuchsia with Her Imperious Condescension's logo stamped in the center in white. It is similar to the gift Jane wears as a tiara, which has granted her quickness of thought and clarity of focus. For Jake, she brings the strap down to his neck and, after pushing his drooping chin away, fastens it into a form fitting collar.

Data immediately pours into her mind through her own tiara, all nicely organized and meta-tagged. It provides her maps of Jake's parasympathetic nervous system, mapped to synaptic variables.

"You will let him go now," Jane says. Her employees drop his wrists and step aside, but before Jake's hands can fall Jane catches them with his own muscles, twitching them back into place. His arms spasm under her command, but Jane is confident her finesse will improve. Already the neuronal map is nearing its first-pass completion. As complicated as the human brain is, it is child's play compared to what the Empress's accessories are designed to interface.

Jake hadn't been actively moving his arms, any more than he'd actively done anything else, but when he realizes his hands aren't falling with gravity he struggles to drop them. Jane knows this, because the activity of his motor cortex is echoed in her mind so she may override it.

He wants to bring his fists to his throat and pull off the collar. He wouldn't have the _strength_ , but Jane will let him find that out himself. Right now, she merely catches the impulses and snuffs them out before they leave his central nervous system.

"Leave us," Jane says to her carapacian employees. The closest one gives her a minute, deferential nod, and they file from the cell.

Jake is beginning to panic again. It's good that he's taking an interest in the proceedings, but Jane's having difficulty keeping him in position with so many nerve impulses flagging her. His muscles are trying to move in wild and mutually contradictory directions.

"Jane," he says, fixing on her as a one known thing. "Jane, what the hogmagundy is--" Jane searches out for the muscle control of his throat and stops his vocal chords.

"I said I don't want to hear any ridiculous old timey nonsense!"

"And I don't have to, Jake. You are my betrothed, and I have told you what the position entails. If you are incapable of performing up to those expectations then, as your superior, it is my gosh darn responsibility to make sure that targets are met regardless!"

Jane moves forward, close enough to feel the heat of him passing from his barely covered skin and smell the tang of fear sweat. She cups his cheekbone delicately in her palm, and the fact that his motor neurons are trying to flinch him away from her is hot, thrilling, terrifying, _not_ what she ever wanted--

\--irrelevant, because she's growing more adept with each unit of computational time. Jane keeps him in place. She even has him lean into her touch, as though despite the trembling of his brain, he can't help but desire her.

Controlling him takes no extraordinary effort. Her mind is clear.

His eyes leak tears, which run down and are caught in the dips between her fingers. His eyelashes are wet, and they flutter against her fingertips every blink: a tiny spark of muscle twitching Jane has no current reason to interfere with. His eyes are desperate as he looks up, begging at her, but his mouth is a grim, tight line.

Jane runs her thumb over his jaw, relaxing each muscle in turn, so that it appears his expression is melting under her touch. His lip relaxes, and then it pouts out, plump and dark.

"Open," she tells him, but she doesn't wait for him to obey. Jane is not a micromanager, but she can achieve the final result herself much more exactly than Jake could without trial and explanation. A demonstration is easiest.

She tips his jaw wider until his mouth falls very slightly open, a perfect sliver-hint of invitation. Those lips, underneath red-rimmed eyes looking up though damp lashes, render Jane's own senses unreliable. Her fingertips are electric where she's touching him, and tied through her core.

Her breath halts in her throat. Jane's upgrades offer to compensate with a controlled stretch of diaphragm, but Jane ignores them. A businesswoman must allow herself some liberties in her personal moments.

"Now your tongue," Jane says, aware of her breath moving over her own lips. She could pull him up right now and kiss him. She could claim him by taking his lip in her teeth and sucking until he'll show bruises.

The calculation of how easy it would be makes the effort of resisting its own, trembling pleasure, a building anticipation in her cunt.

She'd asked Jake to offer his tongue, and this time, when she uses his muscles to push it, he's playing along, _learning_ , and perhaps he can't tell that his nerve impulses are being parsed and examined, reproduced only after her approval.

However, he tries to bring his tongue forward too far, and Jane halts it. She doesn't want to plug up the inviting question of his open mouth. She only wants a hint of tongue in the darkness behind his lips, as a hidden, suggestive reminder.

Jane notes the position of the muscles in Jake's cheeks, mouth and tongue, and each cluster becomes a bright spark in her data. She collects them into a template.

After she applies it, she stops consciously controlling those muscles. Jake's face isn't frozen. It shifts naturally when he takes each shallow, heaving breath or squinches his eyes shut. But he always falls back to the barely open pout.

"This should," Jane's voice comes out rougher than she'd anticipated. She compensates. "This will be your default facial expression from now on, when your pretty lips aren't otherwise engaged. It will be clearly communicated what your mouth is for." 

Jake closes his eyes and more tears are dislodged. Jane is beyond weary of his tedious sobbing, but she marks this as acceptance. She hasn't given him many alternate ways to prove his understanding.

Each time her gaze falls on Jake's pouting lips, the needy emptiness of her cunt is a jolt. Jane will have to design alternate, less distracting expressions, for when she must be purely focused on her work. She will have an eternity to customize them.

Jane assesses his arms, pulled over his head as though they are suspended on an invisible wire. She brings them down to rest on his thighs instead.

As they drop, for a moment it appears that he's reaching up for her. His wrist cuffs stand out on his skin, and the contrast draws her eye to his hands and his strong, dexterous fingers. Jane notes the possibility of coloring his fingernails, to further highlight them, but the white cuffs are a good choice after all.

Jake himself is still sniveling and pathetic. Jane will have to work on that, along with the proportions and silhouette of his uniform. However, as a first pass, the prototype design is acceptable.

"You will come to me," Jane says, and Jake intends to look confused. His parted pout wobbles, but doesn't change. It is a well done piece of software.

Jane draws him up, extending his thighs and stretching his spine towards her. She closes as much of the height gap as she can without lifting him from his knees. She wants to feel his skin. Jane takes his jaw in her fingers and squeezes so that his lips purse out, and when he swallows, his throat bobs into the side of her hand. His lower face is as smooth as the proverbial infant's buttocks.

The possibility that the depilatory fire has permanently ruined his follicles is infuriating to contemplate. Jane is familiar with the great selection of prosthetic mustaches available, but how _dare_ Sburb take that decision from her. 

Jane holds him like that for twenty seconds, feeling the heat of his skin and breathing in his musky, earthy smell, and then she dips down and finally takes his mouth. She sucks on his unresisting lip and slips her tongue between his teeth, and his mouth welcomes her. He can't _stop_ her from taking what she wants. Her tongue finds his, and his brain fires to jerk it away, but it's no longer his to control. She circles the muscle with her tongue tip and then opens his jaw, inviting herself deeper in.

Her hand drifts down. Jake's newly pierced nipples are hot pebbles surrounded by metal and smooth, cool gemstone. She pinches lightly at one of them, and his intended reaction ghosts for her: bucking and twisting. Jake is breathing heavily, sighing over her tongue, and if Jane allowed him use of his vocal chords he would be screaming her name.

Jane groans into his mouth. She needs to be touched. Jane lets go of his chest and slides her hand into her pants, and only then realizes it doesn't have to be her _own_ fingertips on her clit as she fantasizes them thicker and calloused, rougher and warmer.

She's already familiar enough with Jake's motor system that it takes negligible effort to bring his arm up. Jane traces his hand over the inside of her leg, from calf to thigh, and he doesn't contradict her. His neurons passively echo the movements in a backwards justification for what his body is doing, effect followed by cause.

He cups her mound with his palm, which is warm through the fabric of her pants. Jane has him run a teasing finger along the crease of her slit, and _here_ his brain lights up in panic. He sets off an impotent flare of neurons to tear his hand away. Jane honestly can not guess where he was expecting the hand to end up, if he's only reacting now. The absurd boy has absolutely no sense of foresight.

Jane angles his hand under her Crockercorp brand-compliant pants. His fingers slide wetly into her, and their questing tips part her cunt. She's hypothesized that the process would feel too much like masturbation to be truly satisfying, since nothing would surprise her if she's pulling Jake's "digital" strings. Puppets were never _her_ kink.

It's better. It feels like Jake has dedicated himself to her pleasure, and that he knows innately just how she wants to be touched, the optimal rhythm and speed, and the precise angle to crook his finger.

His other arm reaches under her shirt to squeeze her breast, and his mouth chases hers. The corners of his lips curl into a smile, even as a fresh tear runs down the side of his nose. It's like old, well used fantasies, and it will be even better, Jane can project with statistical confidence, when she has further streamlined her control of his muscle movements.

In the future, she will create other templates. His motor cortex will give up on contradicting her, or, if not, she will no longer need it to fine-tune her commands and can stop--

The pleasure in her cunt sends a crescendoing throb up her spine, blanking her thoughts except the ceaseless baseline of cold, implanted logic. _This is rightfully yours. Everything is yours, if you obey me._

_Yours, if you submit to me._

_Yours, if you consume._

As her orgasm ends, Jake's hand squeezes exactly in time with the aftershocks. When Jane no longer needs to fine-tune her commands against his brain patterns, she may blot them from her conscious awareness. It will seem that he's cheerful to do as she bids.

Alternately, as a more compassionate option, she may complete his training. She had promised him that, and a highly ranked businesswoman must be reliable with her word whenever reasonable to incubate trust and productive working relationships.

Jane grips the collar around his neck. The technology is programmed for simple control, but it would be straightforward to implement new functionality, inducing pain if his brain impulses don't flare in unison with her instructions. Jake can be such a passive aggressive shit, and Jane calculates a significant chance he will stop cooperating entirely instead of accepting her guidance as a gentle initiation to his new role.

She adds this to the list of alterations for his uniform. The testing process always exposes potential changes, and refinements must remain open for a healthy brand.

She has Jake take his hands back to his thighs. His lips are kiss-plump and wet, and as he pulls away, they fall slightly open for her, still available, ready to be used again and again whenever she desires. It's almost enough to have her desire him _immediately_ , but Jane is already running over the time she's allocated to this task.

"If I allow you control of your voice," Jane says, "I don't want you to start spouting outdated nonsense. You will only tell me what I want to hear. Do you understand?"

It takes Jake either a long time to understand, or to figure out that he may nod his compliance. After she releases his vocal chords, he chokes and sputters as though he's already forgotten how to use them. Jane doubts she damaged them, but she accepted that there would be risks to the initial process.

"Tell me things that a husband would say to his wife after engaging in coitus," she says. "Say that I'm attractive."

Jake stares helplessly at a point behind her.

"Well!?" she demands.

"You're attractive," Jake murmurs.

Jane snaps in annoyance, "That's not very convincing. Try again! You will tell me that you want to have babies with me!"

"I want to have babies with you," Jake says. Jane grabs the front of his cape chain and drags him up. His knees leave the floor.

"You will tell me," she growls, "that you want me. That you've always wanted me."

He's still crying, tears catching on the broad planes of his jaw and tripping down his throat.

"I do," he says, softly, but almost convincing. "I want-- wanted you."

"Like this?"

"Yes, Jane. Anything you want."

"Good. Because this has been a preview of the relationship we'll have once we are married. Forever."

Jane makes final notes for the Assiduous Fashionista, then pulls the outfit onto a single captchalogue card. She replaces it with Jake's original god tier pajamas.

Without the collar broadcasting Jane's reminder to support himself, he slumps to the floor with a "Guh" as though Jane had punched him again. If he insists on behaving so dramatically, Jane will have to make a focused effort to desensitize him to being acted on by her sylladex. It is yet another responsibility in the care and keeping of Jake English.

"If you weren't hunky, you would be good for nothing whatsoever," she says to the curled up figure by her feet. "Even so, you are only marginally acceptable as a suitor." Where the piercings in his earlobes had been, blood is dripping down ruby red, but the skin on his earlobes is fresh and pale. With his god tier healing abilities, it may be simplest for Jane to re-pierce him every time she wants him adorned.

"Several alterations must be made to your clothes. Then I will deal with acts of pointless defiance from the other human and troll players."

"Afterward, I will return to continue your training. Perhaps we will try actual baby making at that time, so you'd better pick up that attitude, buster!"

Jake rolls his eyes shut and turns his face to the floor.

Jane fists her hands, but she calls upon reserves of efficient, cool-headed logic and walks wordlessly out of the cell. He's being difficult, but a superior must be willing to invest time in their subordinates.

Jake is _hers_ , and she will repeat the lesson until he fully understands what that means.


End file.
